


Whispered Words in Bleeding Black

by Masterofceremonies



Series: Batjokes Fics! [6]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 03:44:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6640060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masterofceremonies/pseuds/Masterofceremonies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Insecurities are aired and soothed, questions are asked and answered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispered Words in Bleeding Black

It is 12:19 AM, eastern standard time.

In a mansion on the edge of Gotham city, two forms are curled together underneath a cocoon of blankets.

Thick dark locks tangle with faded sandy curls on a powder blue silk pillowcase.

Chests rise and fall in an offbeat rhythym.

A powerful arm is wrapped around a scarred torso, and a white smudged hand grips that arm loosely.

One pair of eyes stare into darkness, swirling patterns dancing in front of them, a brain substituting things that can't be seen with nonsensical colors and shapes. The other pair of eyes are shut, evenly resting, not quite asleep, but not at all concious.

"Are you awake?" The voice is barely a whisper, but it shatters the quiet just as completely as a scream would have.

One pair of eyes remain shut. One pair remains open.

"Mhm..." He does not know the whisper was meant to be grave. He is not thinking of anything but the comforting warmth of the other's skin.

"Do you hate me?"

Two pairs of eyes stare into the darkness. Both are open. Both are creased with worry, but for very different reasons.

Eons pass. Breath flows. Hearts beat and stutter and skip.

Then.

"No." Two sighs. One of relief, one of concern. "Of course not." Silence. Inhale. 

"Why not?"

Another sigh. Tension. The next words are spoken as rawly as words can be spoken, carrying weight that words said during the daytime do not, cannot, should not carry.

"I don't know."

There is something intimately detatched about conversations held in darkness. This conversation is no different. They are close, pressed against one another, back to front, skin to skin, but they cannot see anything through the pitch colored air.

It's that sort of darkness, the sort that makes you hold your hand as close to your nose as possible just to marvel at how blind you are, the sort that your eyes don't adjust to, no matter how many hours you squeeze them shut.

The sort of darkness that makes you tremblingly aware of anyone and anything in the room with you, no matter how far away it is.

The sort of darkness that makes you feel utterly alone, no matter how tightly you're being held.

The sort of darkness that lets you reveal secrets that are otherwise obscured by shadows and spotlights alike. Only when blinded can they be seen.

"I've killed people." 

Neither one is fully awake, nor asleep. Neither one can summon the energy to put anger into their words.

"I know."

"Innocent people."

"I know."

Both suddenly realize that they are building towards something. They have been closing in on it, for a long time, but neither knew until this moment. 

"Good people."

"I know."

"People you loved."

"I know."

An opportunity to fall silent is presented and ignored.

"I don't regret it."

The pattern stops. He cannot say he knows because he did not know. Not at all. Not even the kind of knowing that you try your hardest not to know, not even the kind of knowing that comes with reflection after years and years of not knowing. He simply didn't know.

He _wants_ to know. So he asks. 

"Why?"

There is pause, but not the pause that comes from thinking, rather the pause that comes from hesitation. 

"I'm here." This is not enough. He knows this and continues. "With you." Quietly now, less sure. "Because of all of it."

"Inspite of all of it." It is a correction, and a desperate one. He needs it to be true.

"Because." He resolutely states. "You wouldn't've... Looked at me."

"That's not true." His voice is soft and pleading. Can't he see he needs this to be true?

"Not like you look at me now." His tone turns bitter. "You would've been disgusted. Or worse, you would've pitied me."

More silence. Tears threaten to fall, but eyelids blink, and the threat subsides.

"What do you want me to say?" He is tired, more so than before, despite sleep having fled his mind completely.

He answers with a question.

"Was it worth it? Am I worth it? Is... Is this worth it? Are we worth it?"

More eons. More breath. The tears take their revenge, dripping onto the pillowcase, turning powered blue into navy.

"Yes." It is the barest breath, as if they had been screaming, and he felt the need to whisper.

More heartbeats, more tears, shaking, clutching, lips grazing skin, meaningless apologies, meaningful declarations.

Darkness.

Silence.

Sleep.


End file.
